Parched

  Parched

  Vampire Saviors

  Z. L. Arkadie

  Copyright © 2015 by Z.L. Arkadie Books

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9849884-0-2

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to my Mother, my first editor, beta reader and fan. Love you dearly, Mom.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter One

  I stop to wiggle my toes. My feet are killing me, and I know it’s because of the Manolo Blahnik Mary Jane heels that I’m wearing. I can thank Freda, my mom, for my discomfort. When I landed my position at Lang, Bender & Jenison Advertising, she had a full fifty-piece wardrobe delivered to my apartment, which included shoes and a note that read, “You have to look the part of an executive peddling beauty products, Clarity.” Naturally, I was offended. On my first day on the job, I wore a black pant-suit that was a few sizes too big with a black turtleneck. It didn’t take long to hear that Freda was right. The next day I wore the designer garb and everyone instantly figured I knew what I was talking about when speaking beauty and fashion. Of course I didn’t need the clothes to be effective at my job but regardless, “looking the part” did make my job easier. Over time I’ve gotten used to wearing the snazzy clothes, but the shoes will never be my friend.

  I wiggle my toes again, and sigh with dread, knowing that the day has just began and my feet were already on fire. Thank goodness the building that I work in is less than a block away. I pull it together and continue walking until I make it to my destination. I hurry in through the revolving glass doors with a group of others, and as I wait at the elevators, I notice three faces from the office. They’re avoiding eye contact, but I know they’re aware that I’m present. I know because I have abilities. I can feel their emotions and read their thoughts. Actually, it’s more than that, I can become the full embodiment of who they are. No actual human being should be able to do that, but I can—even as a child, I could.

  So I’m aware that I’m getting the cold shoulder because Felix Parker, my father, is a major investor in our firm—and no matter how much I prove that I belong in my position, some people will always believe nepotism makes me undeserving of my seat at the table.

  The partners also had their doubts about me when they first made me executive director of Fashion and Beauty—two months after I graduated from Harvard Business School. Felix insisted I was qualified for no lesser position, the partners reluctantly agreed, and within a year, I put Lang, Bender & Jenison Advertising on the map. I’m the one the clients ask for by name. “Nepotism” may have gotten me my job, but my drive and smarts convinced the partners I’m well qualified for it. However, that doesn’t mean I’m well liked. I’m forced to feel my colleagues’ disdain for me as we head up to our floor.

  Anxious to escape their scrutiny, I rush to my office as soon as the elevator releases us but Michael Colton’s executive assistant catches up to me a few feet away from the door.

  “Miss Parker?”

  She calls me “Miss Parker” because she thinks I’m uptight.

  I smile to put her at ease. “Feel free to call me Clarity.”

  “Yes, right, Clarity,” she amends, still nervous. “Michael would like you to come up with a few ideas for brand contact and media objectives and present them to the Red Yard execs tonight at the Waldorf.”

  Questions shuffle through my head like a strip of film riding through a projector. She’s waiting for me to convey my acceptance before heading back to her desk to mark this task off her to-do list but I feel as if I’ve just been struck in the head by a two-by-four.

  Extreme curiosity crimps my eyebrows. “Isn’t Red Yard an energy drink?”

  “Yes, but he said they asked for you specifically.”

  “Me,” I say more to myself than her. “Okay, well, is there a strategy meeting scheduled this afternoon?”

  “There’s no meeting scheduled. Tonight’s supposed to be kind of impromptu. You know, casual.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep sigh. Then I open them, hoping to see a new future. However, all I see is how conflicted Leona looks. I put on a tiny smile and tell her thank you. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  She leaves in peace, but I do not. I sit at my desk, power up my computer, and check my e-mail, and then make a few calls to clients. By ten I open the Red Yard proposal folder that’s on the Z-drive and try to figure out if there’s anything I can add to help with tonight’s pitch.

  “Morning, Clarity.”

  I look up to see Barbara Ready, my own executive assistant, who’s standing in my doorway. She’s holding up a little white bag—I can already smell the bacon, eggs, and cheese between a sweet croissant—and a cup of hot coffee.

  “Morning,” I say in a sad voice.

  “Ah, Red Yard got you all tied in knots, huh?” she says as she walks over to set the food and drink on my desk.

  She saw my distress written all over my face. I tap my fingers on the desktop as my mind races. “This is strange, don’t you think? These types of projects usually go to Sanford, and you know how he gets when anyone infringes on his territory—especially me.”

  It’s just like her to figure out how to torpedo a good thing, Barbara thinks and then says, “Yeah…” She flops down on the black leather sofa pushed up against the wall. My mother bought that too.

  I sit up straight, rattled by my assistant’s last thought. She’s right of course. I hate the socializing aspect of my job. Knowing what’s going on someone’s mind makes it difficult to engage in small-talk, especially with a guy who wants to do dirty things to me.

  “I’ll give Michael a call,” I say. “Maybe we can brainstorm together, and he can take those ideas to his client without me being present.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe, but Leona told me that Michael was adamant about you being there. She even stopped by and made sure I put it on your calendar.” Because you didn’t tell me, she thinks.

  I give her a tight-lipped smile. Barbara’s anal about my schedule because she’s afraid of failing.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “About what?” She narrows one eye suspiciously.

  “Not telling you about tonight. I forgot.”

  She drops her face and plays with the hem of her skirt, wondering how I always know what she’s thinking. “Well, I can go with you, if you want.”

  There’s a sacrifice in her energy. I see her plans. She’s excited about attending a friend’s surprise birthday party tonight.

  “No, no, no.” I flop a hand dismissively. “I’ll handle it.”

  She nods and scoots to the edge of the sofa, hoping that her offer scored her some points. She wants a raise. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already submitted the request to HR and it’s been approved. I’m about to tell her that but think better of it. However, I can’t believe what she’s about to ask
me. It’s brave of her, but I guess she can no longer hold it in.

  “Clarity, can I ask you a question?”

  I don’t know if I’m ready to answer it, but she’s been with me long enough to merit one. I’m already trying to come up with a response that makes sense even to me. “Sure.”

  “Why are you so…I don’t know…” She wants to say “afraid” but doesn’t want to insult me. She glances out the window. It’s sprinkling. “Why are you so wary about attending these sorts of events? All you have to do is sip on a cocktail and pretend the person you’re talking to is saying something mildly interesting. Heck, after you get a few drinks in your system, any conversation will go down easy—I know this from experience. And I know loads of people in this building who would love to say something interesting to you.” She had taken the long way around to get to the subject of my love life. That’s what she’s mainly concerned about.

  I see the faces of men flashing through her head—some I’ve seen before, some I haven’t. She shifts uncomfortably, thinking she’s said too much.

  “I know,” I say quietly. “But I’m not in the market for a boyfriend.”

  Again she’s amazed that I always know what she’s thinking. She chalks it up to us being a compatible work duo.

  I clear my throat, realizing that was not a direct answer to her question. “And, I don’t know why I have the anxiety.” I sigh. “But I guess there’s no better time than this evening to work on it.”

  She smiles. “Now that’s the right attitude.”

  We chuckle together.

  “Just get a cocktail in your hand and try to relax. It’s really not that bad.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I force a smile. No need to tell her that alcohol makes my stomach very sick. I’ve never been able to keep it down.

  Barbara excuses herself to head back to her desk to get me prepared for my next meeting with Daily Skin Works. As soon as I’m alone I buzz Michael but Leona tells me he’s in a meeting.

  “Have him call me as soon as he returns to his desk,” I say.

  “Sure,” she says.

  I end up having to call him three more times and each time he’s either meeting with a project team or out for drinks with a client. I suspect he’s avoiding me.

  At six thirty, the cold breakfast sandwich and coffee still sit on my desk. I swivel in my chair to stare out the window and take in the city lights. I love staring at the lights. The glow always make feel hope for something mysterious, perhaps unbelievable, and definitely out of this world. Finally, I sigh wearily and turn away from the window. I power down my computer, grab my purse, and rise to my feet. It’s show time.

  Chapter Two

  Riding down the elevator alone, I assess myself in the silver walls. I’m too tall, and I have too much hair. Regardless, I free my locks out of the bun and dig the red lipstick out from the bottom of my purse. By the time the door opens, I’ve fluffed out my curls, applied lipstick, and dropped the tube back into my purse. I glance at myself one more time and try to ignore the striking image I see looking back at me. The way I look is unreal, just like my abilities.

  Suddenly I’m struck by a memory of the first time I tried to cut my hair. I was fifteen years old. Freda was on location in New York for a lead actress role in a prime-time miniseries, and Felix was in New Delhi acquiring a software company from venture capitalists. I was at home in Bel Air with Aries, the nanny who loved to wear coral-blue dashikis and turquoise jewelry and make out with her boyfriend, Raz.

  It was a hot July afternoon when I stepped onto the patio with my hair sheared. Raz, a beachy-looking surfer dude with long, messy blond hair, had just taken three jumps on the edge of the diving board and dove headfirst into the blue dolphin-shaped pool. Aries sat on the opposite end, watching him with a bright smile. Her mocha skin glistened in the sun. After a hoot and holding up eight fingers to score his dive, Aries turned to look at me with my hair all gone.

  “Hey, Clarity,” she called all cool, calm and collected. “Did you see that? He thinks he’s in the Olympics!” Then she laughed.

  That was the extent of her reaction. I went to bed that night wondering what my parents would think and if I was really that invisible to the people in my life. Then something eerie happened. By the end of the week, my hair had grown back to the same length—spiraling all the way to the small of my back and as thick as cotton candy.

  On Friday morning, all Aries said to me was, “Good morning, Clarity. You want to hang out with us today? It’s hot, so we’re hitting the beach.” Again, she behaved as if she hadn’t noticed that my hair had grown back in less than five days.

  I tried cutting it again when I turned twenty-one, and once again, it grew back in one week. After that, I swore I was never cutting it again. I don’t think about those two terrifying incidents anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Now, every morning, I twist my tresses up into a tight bun just above the nape of my neck, and voila, there’s my haircut.

  On my walk to the Waldorf, I’m beaten up by the thoughts and feelings of strangers. No one is relaxed; everyone is anxious about the tasks they have to complete before bedtime. As usual, their worries are transferred to me, sending my nerves into a tizzy.

  Finally, I’m standing under the golden marquee of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. I take a deep breath, hoping the oxygen will infuse me with confidence. It does for the moment, so I head inside.

  In the lobby, the decor is lemon gold and very elegant. I want to turn around and leave, but instead I follow familiar faces down a short staircase to the ballroom. Faint music fills the air. It’s a wiry contemporary instrumental. The notes twist and turn into a striking falsetto and then repeat. The lights are dim, but everything sparkles. The sconces attached to the walls, the bulky stone pillars, the sparkling vases, and the potted plants are all aglow. I’m the only woman in a suit. My female colleagues are in strappy cocktail dresses.

  I catch sight of the marketing team, then sales, my copywriters, accounts, and finally the other creative directors. Most of the attendees are grouped in threes or fours, sipping cocktails out of sexy glasses and chatting. They all see me, especially my copywriters. They all have the same old comments. I’m ready to hear something new about myself.

  Look who the rain dragged in.

  Wonder how long she’ll stay.

  She wore that suit today? She could’ve at last tried.

  Ah, Clarity Parker, maybe I’ll strike up a convo later.

  She’s so damn hot.

  She’s so damn odd.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  That’s the comment I follow. It leads directly to Sanford Giles, who’s part of a circle, standing with the bigwigs. He’s hoping I do an about-face and leave. I’m contemplating making his wishes come true when Michael Colton catches a glimpse of me.

  He waves me over. “Clarity!”

  His cohorts study me with shining, expectant eyes. He’s entertaining a select bunch. Along with Sanford, executive creative director of Consumable Products, there’s Peter Root, VP of Major Accounts, Douglas McCarthy, VP of Marketing, and Greg Long, one of the named partners. I’ve never seen them so happy to see me. I sense greed as the primary motivator. Peter Root is appraising me. For some reason, he’s trying to figure out what some person he’s calling “he” sees in me, and he’s trying to find it from my legs up to my face. There’s no escaping, so I walk over. The men make space next to Michael.

  “It’s good to see you here,” Michael says as his hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Well, I got the memo, so…”

  “Yes, yes,” he says passively, glossing over the fact that although I’m here, I’m not happy about it. “So.” The word hangs in the air for a moment, signaling all eyes back on him. “Red Yard wants to saturate the market at a record pace.”

  He’s looking at me. They all are, and now I’m shrinking into my aching feet. I’ll definitely take a cab home.

  “Baron Ford,” he says and p
auses to read how familiar I am with that name.

  I nod stiffly to give no indication that I know exactly who he is. I’m shocked to hear that name in this setting, at this stage of my life—far away from Cambridge, Massachusetts, and over five years later.

  Chapter Three

  Who’s Baron Ford?

  I came to be a lover of downtown living during my six-year stint in Cambridge, Massachusetts—four years at Harvard University and then two at the Harvard Business School. The best part of each was being far away from my parents’ already distant reach. Freda didn’t care much for any towns in Massachusetts beyond Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Code—places she called solid vacation destinations. My dad, Felix, only rode into town on business. Unlike my mother, he didn’t do lunch or dinner with daughter. Even now, my father never calls to check how my day went or learn if I’m happy or sad. He has only a few self-appointed purposes in my life. Felix keeps my bank account stacked. He makes sure I follow the path he sets for me, and insists that I only live in places he selects.

  That’s how I came to live in the Bend Condominiums, smack-dab in the middle of Cambridge. I loved that place, the whimsical building that tilted a little. Architect Vick Moyers had the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Big Ben in mind when he drafted the plans. I occupied the penthouse, which had seven master suites with bathrooms attached. It also had two dens, a living room, and a humungous kitchen. All the furniture was contemporary chic, my dad’s favorite style: straight chairs; hard, red fabric sofas; white marble floors; crystal glass tables; furry white area rugs; lots of metal and wooden shelves. Everything was spotless, well-ordered, and stylish, just the way Felix likes it.